


Make it a Home

by Banashee



Series: Tear Down The Walls (IronHawk Verse) [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Team as Family, cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 18:46:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17350586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banashee/pseuds/Banashee
Summary: For the first time after decades, Clint sets a foot in his childhood home again, and swears he won't come back.He does though, and the memories haunt him. Lucky for him, he's not alone anymore.





	Make it a Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Banana_Ink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banana_Ink/gifts), [Ranni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranni/gifts).



> Hello there,  
> good to see you here!  
> This Story has been in my mind since around 2017 I think, then writers block kicked my butt real hard and then, in the end of 2018 I started again. 
> 
> Much thanks to my best friend Banana_Ink for being there, listening to me whine about it and look at Waverly Iowa on Google Earth because what else would we do.  
> Also a really big thanks to Ranni, who was a source of motivation for me in writing this.
> 
> PLEASE READ: TRIGGER WARNINGS❗
> 
> If any of the following triggers you, please proceed with caution or klick away.
> 
> \- Domestic violence, at places quite graphic.  
> \- Child abuse  
> \- Mention of human trafficing, nothing graphic  
> \- Death, not graphic  
> \- PTSD / Panic Attacks / Depression, at places graphic  
> \- Swearing and profanity
> 
> \- If there is anyting I forgot to mention here and you find something that bothers you, please let me know so I can add it on the list. Thank you!

**Make it a home**

 

*+~ *+~*+~*+~

 

When Clint left the house, he hoped that he wouldn't have to come back. Never again, if he had any choice.

It had been decades since he'd last set a foot inside, and it wasn't any more comfortable than it had been back then. But checking in on the place after it's ownership had been turned over to him quite recently was the only logical thing to do.

Up until then, the old farm existed with Barney's name on the papers. As the older son, he was the one who'd gotten ownership of it as soon as he'd turned 18 after their parents death.

But since Barney had spent the last odd decade in the deathrow for human trafficking, murder and weapon dealership amongst other things, the property was now Clint's.

 

Clint had gotten a phone call out of nowhere, informing him about Barney's execution date. They asked if he wanted to see his brother on said day and informed him over some personal arrangements as well.

Clint wanted to say that he didn't give a shit, but instead calmly thanked the agent on the phone and declined a last visit. After he hung up Clint put his fist through a wall. Later, the memory infused nightmares startled him awake after an hour or two and left him shaking the remainder of the night.

 

While Clint was at the house on a day off, he installed a security system just in case he needed a safehouse in the area – owning a house and _not_ securing it for a later time, even when he wasn't actively planning on using it was just plain stupid, so here he was, slamming the door shut after he was done and heading to his car without looking back.

 

The old, abandoned farm house in the fields, on the very edge of Waverly, Iowa stood up behind him, flimsy and depressing as always.

It was early evening when Clint climbed back in the car, and thought for a moment; sleeping here in the car, go and look for a motel, or starting the fuck-hour-long car ride back to New York over night? There was no way he was going to stay in the house now, even when that would have been the easiest decision, logically. But he already knew that it wouldn't do any good for his mental health.

 

Coming back to the house where he spent the first eight years of his miserable childhood was harder than expected – of course it wasn't easy, but the memories were far more vivid than he had thought, and the anxiety took over way too fast. But Clint got the job done, because he treated it as such – just another mission. It couldn't be farther away from the truth.

So as soon as he was done installing the alarms and home security systems, he put a few necessitates in the bathroom and kitchen, some bedding and towels in the cupboard in the hallway and then he left. For good, or at least he was hoping it was.

 

Clint knew he wasn't going to get much, if any, sleep tonight. So he might as well start his way back, get a coffee or a can of energy drink and try and sleep in the car if possible, somewhere along the way that wasn't this godforsaken place.

 

There was a gas station several miles out. It had been there for as long as he could remember, as had all of the other shops and houses here.

Nothing had changed, and when Clint saw a group of older people sitting outside the little shop, chatting and laughing on cheap lawn chairs and drinking beer, he kept driving. Clint had no idea if they were old neighbors or people he'd known as a child.

Aware of the fact that, unfortunately, his appearance had a unmistakable similarity with his long dead father, he really didn't want to find out and risk being recognized or even worse, having to have a conversation. These folks might be nice enough, from what he remembered, but he really wasn't too keen on being asked questions. Or talking to anyone at all, at this point.

His white knuckled death-grip on the steering wheel remained, and when he had to suddenly slam the brakes and stop on the side of the road to try and breathe again, well, no one would know.

 

*+~ *+~*+~*+~

 

As it was, he _did_ return, only one year later, but he wasn't alone this time.

He was on high alert in the backseat of a stolen car, weapon in hand and watching their backs while Phil was in the drivers seat, speeding just enough to get them away fast, but not fast enough to draw any unwanted attention to them. Natasha was riding shotgun and watching their surroundings just as closely as Clint.

So far, this had been a clusterfuck of a mission. Faulty intel and a good portion of bad luck had lead to too many dead people, their car blown up and a compromised safehouse. Now they were on their way to safety. Since the farm really wasn't too far from their old set up Clint had given them the coordinates to the old house. If he hadn't been busy with their current problems, he would have felt nauseous at the very thought of coming back – but it was their best option right now.

 

“I know a safe place.” he'd said, and given the directions. “SHIELD doesn't exactly know about it. Got it last year.”

“You told _us_ about this, didn't you? The farm?” Natasha shot him a quick look in the mirror and Clint gave her a short nod in response. He didn't say anything else and watched out the rear window to see if anybody was following them – there wasn't.

At least officially no one knew about this house – but telling Phil and Natasha about this was different. He trusted them with his life, and these two were the only people in the world he would willingly tell about such personal things.

Clint told them where he was going, when he took a few days off and packed a car full of stuff. Both of them knew a thing or two about his upbringing, and had offered to come and help, but Natasha had gotten called out for different mission on the same day, and Phil had to cover for Jasper Sitwell who was struck down with food poisoning in the last minute, So Clint went alone.

 

The unspoken question – “Will you be alright?” – hung in the air while they were on their way to the farm but Clint stayed silent and kept watch on the highway.

 

About two hours later, they'd arrived at the safehouse, checked the safety of their surroundings and continued to do so inside. They immediately split up to check every room, until they were sure it was secure. It didn't take too long – the front door lead right into the living room.

There was barely enough space for a sofa, armchair and a small coffee table to be crammed in.

The kitchen was old, and it only held one counter with a sink and stove, as well as an very old refrigerator next to a tiny dinner table with four flimsy chairs around it.

From back in the living room the stairs lead to the upper part of the building, where the cramped bathroom and two bedrooms were located. Everything in the house was old, the furniture a leftover from the 1970s and maybe the 1960s, while the tiles in kitchen and bathroom seemed even older than that. Paint was chipping and wallpaper was peeling off all over the place, and it was obvious that the house had been abandoned for years.

A dark shadow seemed to be looming over everything, a tight feeling in the chest with no air to breathe. The ghosts of old, almost forgotten or carefully repressed memories hovered in all the dusty corners.

 

“Hey. Are you okay?”

He almost flinched when Phil put a hand on his back – he'd been lost in thoughts, and not expecting the light touch, but Clint gave a small nod once he'd considered the question. “I'm good.”

He might have sounded steadier than he felt, but he was well aware that Phil didn't buy it. The older Agent gave him a concerned look, and kept his hand where it was for another moment.

“You know you can talk to me anytime.”

He knew. It had always been that way, since Agent Coulson took over as his handler all those years ago, when Clint was a freshly recruited 20 year old kid, distrusting, mouthy and hissing at everyone who dared to come too close. Coulson didn't bat an eye at any of that, remained calm, and, which was even more suprising to Clint at the time, treated him with respect. Even more suprising, he always had his back, even when Clint screwed up. He wasn't used to any of this, and it took him months until he wasn't waiting for the other shoe to drop – or any shoe to drop, really.

With time, he was able to relax and trust, and over the years, Phil, who never betrayed that trust, was not only his Supervisor, but also his best friend.

With a quiet “Thanks.” Clint made his way to the bathroom, locked the door and leaned his back against it for a moment.

 

Just two or three steps away from him was the sink with a mirror cabinet which was slowly going blind. He caught his own reflection; pale, dirty and with too much stubble. His own eyes stared back at him, slightly wider than usual. Clint didn't move, and while he stared at the sink and mirror in front of him, the memory of his mother hit him.

 

_When he was seven years old, he watched her from the doorway in the bathroom._

_Edith Barton was a short woman with light blond hair and huge blue eyes, beautiful, but Clint couldn't remember seeing her smile very often, let alone laugh or be happy at all. There was this sadness that always seemed to surround her, looming over her small figure like a shadow, for as long as he could remember. The older he got, the more he understood why._

_Edith was standing in front of the mirror, carefully applying makeup to her face, trying to hide the deep purple bruises on her cheekbone. They never really disappeared, because there were always new ones before the older bruises had disappeared completely._

_Today, even the attempt at hiding the signs of her husbands anger failed. While she was putting down more and more makeup, it got destroyed by her own silent tears that smeared floods of black mascara down her cheeks and washed away the rest of her work._

 

Clint very carefully did not think about Harold beating new bruises and splitting Edith's lip in the same evening, hollering in drunk anger and throwing bottles of beer, demanding to know who she was trying to impress, “Dolled up like a whore!”.

He also tried to avoid a particularly painful memory of having to watch his mother being dragged down with her head into the sink under running water, the sheer force of the violent movement breaking her nose with a nauseating noise that was audible even for seven year old Clint with his bad ears, pressed into a corner, eyes squeezed shut to stop the tears that threatened to spill over, and hoping it all would stop very soon.

 

Shaking himself out of these thoughts, Clint moved further into the room. He had to physically force himself to keep breathing, and the tight feeling in his chest increased while he stripped down and turned on the water in the shower. At first, the water was brown and muddy but it ran clear within a few minutes. Clint stepped under the steaming hot spray of water, working out knots in his back and washing off the last few hours of the mission. He kept his eyes closed, trying not to think at all. It wasn't until a sharp knock on the bathroom door, and Natasha's voice that brought him back.

“Clint! Are you alive in there, or did you drown in the shower?”

“I'll be out in a minute!” he yelled back over the sounds of the running water, shut it off and went to get dressed in comfortable clothing.

Just as promised, he stepped out soon after, and when he met Natasha with a towel and clothes stacked under one arm in the short hallway, she reached up and ran her hand through his still damp hair on the way past. The touch was light and gentle in a way not many people got to experience from her.

In the next room over, Phil was sitting on the bed with a notebook on his lap, typing away. The phone was on the little nightstand, just like it had been put there after a call.

“Any news, Boss?”

He looked up with a nod. “HQ is informed about the change of situation. We will have to stay here, pickup is in 36 hours.”

Clint nodded back, and headed to rummage in his duffel bag, pointedly ignoring the slight shake in his hands and taking his time. He knew that Phil was carefully watching him – of course he was worried. But he didn't press – knowing his asset and friend for long enough now to know that he would talk about it in his own terms – if he wanted to do so.

 

That night, they settled in the double bed. It was a tight fit, hot and without any air between them, but it was familiar and comfortable.

After years of working together as a team and sharing spaces, all three of them had pretty much lost their physical boundaries around each other.

On the left side, Phil had tangled his legs into Clint's and one arm loosely draped over his waist, while Clint had his back pressed up against him and his face buried in Natasha's red curls. She was clutching her partner in a death-grip, familiar and comforting like always.

There was no way Clint would be able to move a single limb in the foreseeable hours, and he was quite content with that. With Natasha and Phil around, he always felt safe.

However, sleep more often than not was a fight for him, and the current situation didn't help.

He jolted awake every few minutes, breathing too fast and with trembling hands. That night, even the quiet murmurs of reassurance didn't help much, and when the sun rose high, he looked and felt even worse than before.

 

When the extraction team arrived hours later, Clint swore that that was it, he wouldn't go back here – this time for sure.

 

*+~ *+~*+~*+~

 

He didn't get to keep his promise to himself.

< A few years later, he was piloting the Quinjet over the wheat fields and green grass patches, disguise plates out and speeding. In the back, Natasha was currently unconscious and bugged up on pain killers, while Bruce Banner was calmly fussing over her.

It wasn't supposed to happen. She shouldn't have been in this spot, but that was another shitshow of an mission for them. And now they had to badly improvise, because their tower in Manhattan was too far out. The Iowa Farm was closest from where they'd started their way back, Clint knew that, but still dreaded it as he headed in the right direction. Natasha needed to get off the plane and some rest, sooner rather than later. She was his top priority right now, no questions asked.

 

Taking a deep breath, he attempted to unclench his jaw, tried to release some of the strain he was holding. Natasha was in good hands. She would be okay – had to be okay.

“Hey.” Tony had appeared behind him, and gently ran his fingers through the back of Clint's hair.

“Do you wanna switch out?”

He shook his head. “No, I'll keep going. Need to do something productive.”

After a beat of silence, Tony answered, “Nat is stable now. Bruce says she's no longer unconscious, just asleep.” and continued the light touch. “She'll be okay.”

Clint nodded, letting out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding. “I have a safe house, a few hours closer than the tower. We'll go there. It'll be easier to rest and get patched up. We can figure out the rest later.” He sounded more confident than he felt – the thought of the Iowa Farm made his skin crawl, but his top priority was his friends safety. And even a cramped old house would be better than a moving plane. He turned around for a moment, to take a look at the man behind him.

Tony looked as tired as the rest of them, deep circles under his eyes and a small cut on the side of his forehead.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure. Are _you_?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Clint really hoped he was convincing enough. He shrugged “Just tired.” And wasn't that a stretch of the truth. He was pathetically grateful when Tony just sprawled out on the co-pilots seat to stay there for the rest of the flight.

 

Once they arrived and Clint had settled the Quinjet on the back lawn, everyone moved quickly to get inside, as the air held an autumny chill that crept through them all.

 

 

*+~

 

Clint kept pacing the short way between kitchen and living room back and forth. He couldn't rest, even though he was beyond exhausted by now.

 

It was fuck-o-clock in the morning, and the team had settled down in several rooms, Natasha in the master bedroom to rest and heal, Bruce close by her side.

Clint had been a bit of a motherhen, worried about his partner and basically walking up the walls, until Natasha herself, awake again and not as pale as before, calmly but firm demanded he got some rest himself, she wasn't going to die because she was already feeling better and that he of all people should know that the advanced healing she'd gotten all those years back at the red room would take care of the rest. Of course he knew, but still. At least he knew that Bruce would be there to keep an eye on things as well, and he didn't look too worried anymore. So he let it go.

Before he wished them good night, Natasha squeezed his hand, but didn't say anything. She knew they were here only because he'd prioritized her wellbeing and that the team could get rest sooner. Now was not the time to talk about this, but then again they didn't need a lot of words.

 

 

Thor and Steve had dragged blankets and pillows down to the floor of the smaller bedroom upstairs, the former kid's room, which Clint was quietly thankful for – he didn't feel like setting a foot in there. Too many memories of hiding in fear under the bed were attatched to it, and he was currently jumpy enough as it was.

The small house wasn't really made for six grown adults to sleep in, two of which were an anchient God and a 6'2 Supersoldier, both bulit like brick walls, but they made it work while sharing the small space – it was a roof over their heands, heated, with indoor plumbing and at least a few seperate rooms. And that was more than enough for the moment.

The house had settled in silence now, with most of them asleep. Only the old wood was creaking, with the wind outside howling. The noises of ceramic cups clinking came from the kitchen, and soon the warm, rich scent of frehsly brewed coffee wafted through the downstairs rooms.

 

Clint kept pacing between the small kitchen and living room, his heart racing and palms sweaty. He wanted to tell himself that he was still worried about Natasha, but she was recovering and soon would be completely fine. He did not want to think about all the things that came back to mind.

Then Tony emerged from the other room, snaked an arm around Clint's waist and pulled him with him for a few steps and down onto the sofa. He wordlessly handed him one of the cups and kept his arm around the other man while he waited for him to talk.

 

Tony had never been good at finding the right words. He'd try, for the people he cared about.

He'd gotten better, but still struggled with it on many days. His friends knew him well enough to know that, too.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on who you asked, Clint was not good at the whole "talking about feelings and serious stuff"-thing as well. So while they had reached that point in their relationship where they regulary held full blown casual conversations while having sex, neither of them was good at talking about the heavyer things. Surprisingly enough, they still did, and together they always made it work during a crisis.

What Tony _had_ had to learn was to stay quiet and wait patiently in some situations, because Clint just wouldn't talk at all, if pushed too much. But if he waited for long enough nearby, the words would come, eventually.

And that was a joke that never got old, Tony Fucking Stark actually managing to keep his big mouth shut.

 

As minutes went by, they let the quiet darkness of the room surround them. There was an old blanket wrapped around them, containing their shared body heat. The chill of the wind outside crept through the cracks and into their bones.

 

"This used to be my parents house. I only got it a few years ago, didn't plan on using it. Had to come back once before tonight, too." Clint said after a while of silently clutching the warm cup in both hands. He put down the cup because his hands were shaking too much by now."Everything here reminds me of things I don't want to remember. It's why I didn't plan on coming back. But today everything went to shit, and it just... I don't like being here, is all."

Slowly, Clint let out a breath he had not realized he was holding, and unconsciously reached out to take the hand Tony was offering him. It felt calloused and slightly rough from years of experimenting and building things, warm and familiar.

 

Tony didn't know too much about his upbringing, but he knew enough to know that it had been miserable. If he looked around, he wouldn't know that in the very kitchen he had brewed their coffee in, 30 years ago Edith Barton had been scraping mold off of old bread because there was always alcohol in the house, but never enough food and she didn't dare confront her husband about it.

He didn't know that the very table they were sitting at had been the one a drunk, raging Harold had slammed six-year-old Clint into hard enough for his ears to start bleeding, and after that everything had started to sound a little more far away than before.

Tony didn't know these details, but he didn't need to. He just offered himself and his company, for whatever it was worth.

 

He chose his words and tone of voice carefully.

"You know, you could make this place yours. Tell the ghosts to fuck off." Tony kept drawing invisible patterns with his fingertips onto Clint's thigh while he was talking. He shifted slightly to look at him, but did not answer, so the engineer continued. "Not sure about you, but I always thought tearing down walls and building new shit is kind of therapeutic. We could make a team thing out of it, I'm sure Steve would love it. Also, it involves hammers, so Thor'll have a field day as well."

That actually got him a small smile in response. Clint pulled him a little closer, and pressed a kiss into his dark hair.

 

"I'll think about it."

 

*+~

 

When he later asked Natasha what she thought of it, she nodded and actually smiled at him, and he knew it could only get better from here.

 

As it turned out, the rest of the Avengers were equally supportive. So when the next free weekend rolled around, they packed the jet with bukets of tools, paint and roughly half the interior of an Home Depot, and went on their way back to Iowa.

 

*+~

 

_"You're in my spot." Tony announched instead of a greeting after a day packed with Stark Industries meetings when he arrived in the common room._

_He stood in front of the armchair, and his words were met with a lazy, unimpressed, one-eyed glare from Clint, who was currently sprawled out with his legs hanging over one side, upper body over the other side of said chair, and already half asleep._

_"And now I'm here. Shut up, I was about to fall asleep."_

_"Rude much!" Tony complained at him, and stood there for a moment, debating wether or not he should give in to his urge to just flop down on top of Clint. He didn't feel like arguing, but he also really wanted to get horizontal..._

_"Well, fine. Be like that. But I'll be in this chair very soon, wether you're in it or not."_

_It was probably for the best to give a verbal warning. Still, there was about a 50/50 chance of being kicked off..._

 

_"Whatever."_

 

_The engeneer shrugged, and decited to take his chances. He climbed on top of his friend, flopped down with his head onto his chest and then felt how arms and legs wrapped around him like a venus fly trap. Tony braced himself for being thrown on his ass, but nothing happened. Clint just let out a small breath, and then began to snore softly, while clutching a very bemused Tony like some sort of pillow._

_He huffed a laugh, and shifted slightly to get more comfortable. And it was surprisingly comfortable. His eyes drifted shut. The last thing he noticed was that someone threw a blanket over them, and when he opened his eyes again, the rising sun illuminated the room, and although his back protested due to his sleeping position, Tony was more rested than he had been since... A long time._

_Clint woke up soon after, blinked a few times, and then smiled wordlessly. He felt like something settled deep in his chest, and things went from there._

 

_*+~_

 

On this saturday morning they woke up in the enormous bedroom, sprawled out and half on top of each other, a familiar and comfortable sensation by now.

It was early still, when JARVIS let the first bit of sun into the room, opening the blinds and announcing the date, time, weather and plans for the day.

Tony grumbled and burrowed a bit deeper into his partner, who had not heared a thing, but he shifted to try and get away from the light. The mumble coming from him sounded somethinhg like "Urghhh what the fuck..." and was met with fingers scratching lightly at the nape of his neck until he looked up.

Tony signed "Coffee?" and got a nod in response.

 

They started their day out slowly, crawling to the kitchen to get some caffeine, and then took their time in the shower together.

 

*+~

 

Entering the house was still difficult for Clint. He'd started the day full of good intentions and motivation to make a change, quite cheerfully even, but once he arrived there, he grew quiet again.

Breathing was an effort, but he clenched his jaw and threw open every avaidable window to make the sun float every room it could reach.

Someone had brought a CD player, and soon the house was filled with hardrock from the 1980s and chatty superheroes.

It helped, not having to do this alone.

 

Throwing out all the old furniture and whatever little things had been left from all these years ago was the first act. They piled everything up in the backyard, and Clint took an ax to every single thing, making sure there was nothing left but little pieces. He kicked the pile for good measure, and quickly wiped away moisture from his face before he returned back inside where the rest of the team was busy preparing drinks and snacks for a break.

 

That night, they lighted the pile of old furniture on fire and sat around the probably very illegal bonfire, trading stories and laughing. Their faces were illuminated by the flames, and Clint felt lighter than he had since they'd arrived.

He wasn't planning on sleeping that night, because unlike now, his unconscious mind would go back to the dreaded memories in no time.

Sitting on the grass with one arm slung around Tony and Natasha's feet in his lap, watching the sparks fly into the star lit sky felt so much better. They all were busy listening to Thor at the moment, who was vividly telling tales from Asgard, little snippets of a life in a whole different world, with broad gestures and a smile in his booming voice.

Steve was laughing at something Thor had just said, that full-body, head leaned back and slapping the next person on the shoulder laughter, which was truly contagious and not many people managed to get from the Captain.

 

“This” Clint thought, “This is what Families are supposed to be like.”

 

*+~

 

Whenever any of them were available, they would return to the farm to fix up the house. More often than not, the whole team went to help, and Clint couldn't help but wonder what he'd done to deserve friends like them.

 

The day he decided to tear down the wall between the kitchen and living room was not a good one.

A few days before Clint had returned from a SHIELD mission that went fubar very fast, delaying everything and left two Agents dead. It wasn't any of their fault, but the aftermath and the loss of their colleagues wasn't easy on anyone.

Despite being awake for days because the memories left him sleepless, Clint wanted to keep going, because what good would hanging around do him?

He was beyond exhausted, and with every piece of wall that crumbled away underneath his sledge hammer another face, another memory, another dead person crept their way into his mind. Clint had hoped the destructive work would be able to help with everything but his mind just wouldn't keep quiet.

That night he forced himself to stay awake to keep the nightmares away, clutching Tony like a lifeline and shaking without a sound.

 

Painting day was fun, though.

Who knew that, when faced with an empty house and several rooms in need of a fresh paint job, it would turn Earths Mightiest Heroes into a bunch of excited children in no time. Everyone was a mess with paint splatters all over the jumpsuit, giggling and laughing.

Bruce ended up with splatters all over his glasses, Natasha claiming it was on accident, with a shark like grin and sparkle in her eyes. Bruce, fearless man that he was, smeared it right back onto her, finger-painting a heart on her cheek in the process. The next time he turned around, he found out the hard way that his backside was a great canvas for handprints.

Tony was too busy laughing at them, so a second later he ended up with a dark purple paint-handprint on his ass and a very smug looking Clint next to him. He got him back the next time the archer bend down and left not one but two prints on the same spot, grinning like the cat that got the cream.

The day ended with another barbecue and bonfire, and when Clint dug out his old acoustic guitar to channel his inner Freddy Mercury, it was clear that they were making memories.

 

Things got a little busy back in New York for quite some time. But when he found the time, Clint ordered furniture online.

His intent had been to fight old memories and make the safehouse more comfortable, but now he found himself furnishing a little spot of home. He only realized what he was doing, when he ordered two king sized beds and two sofa beds for the upper rooms and the open living room space. It made him smile a little, and he cooked a spontaneous dinner for the entire team in the same evening. When asked about the occasion, he shrugged and said “Just because.”

 

*+~

 

One morning, six identical keys quietly appeared on a board in the common room kitchen of the Avengers Tower. A little tag on each of them read “Iowa House” and no one said a word about it. But whenever the calls to assemble died down for a while and New York just got to be a little too much, various amounts of Avengers would take the standing offer and fly out to the little farm house in the middle of nowhere for a few days.

 

They spent barbecue outings and late summer nights by the fire out in the backyard with everyone, or cozy and cuddled up inside with tea when the days turned shorter, colder and darker. The quiet of the land always amazed them. It was so different from the big city life, and frankly, by now, they all needed it from time to time.

 

***+~**

 

“Hey.”

Clint looked up questioning and half asleep. His hearing aids were on the bedside table, and he'd only looked up because he could feel the vibrations of the word from where his head was currently pillowed on his boyfriends chest.

“Do you wanna get out of the city for a few days?” Tony asked, looking right at him and signing the words at the same time.

A nod. “Sure. What did you have in mind?”

“The Farm?” he asked, hesitating only for a moment. “Let's go make some more memories.” Tony added, sprawling one hand on Clint's hip.

His answer was a small laugh. “How long do you think until the team realizes we've been fucking in every single room?”

The smile he got in reply was more than enough to seal the plan, and then he was busy kissing it off his face.

 

***+~**

 

When the sun was already up over the Iowa Farm, Tony walked into the kitchen. He entered just in time to see Clint bite into a... monstrosity called sandwich, and shuddered.

 

“Ugh, Dude, why?!”

“You've had my dick in your mouth less than an hour ago, you don't get to “Dude” me right now, Anthony.” The answer came promptly and without missing a beat.

Clint had a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, the biggest tell that he was fucking with him, just because. “Also, it's delicious.”

 

There were packets of ham, cheese, mayo, mustard and honest-to-god Oreos on the table next to the bread.

 

“Funny Guy. It's fucking vile.” the billionaire replied with an unimpressed rise of an eyebrow directed at his boyfriend and the sandwich contraption from hell, which he happily munched on. Then Tony went to get some coffee and riffle through the cupboards for leftover waffles.

“So you don't want some?” Clint asked innocently behind him, no doubt with a shit eating grin on his face.

Extragged fake gagging noises were the answer.

 

The banter and good natured ribbing continued all through the breakfast. It was nice and familiar, just another part of life.

Under the table, they were wrapped around each others ankles while they finished drinking their coffee in peace once they were done eating.

 

There was a spark of happiness in the back of Clint's mind, when he realized that right now, in this moment, the little farm house felt just right.

 

Just like home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
